


take and take (but never give)

by gabriphales



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Harassment, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, implied grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24735643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: hastur finds a way to truly ruffle aziraphale's feathers. though to call it that would be an understatement
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 48





	take and take (but never give)

**Author's Note:**

> no noncon actually happens n nothing is described explicitly but hastur is awful n shit. also this fic is super old so apologies for the drop in quality djdjjsjfjf

Crowley regrets the very moment he let Hastur step past the threshold into their bookshop - over the span of thirty minutes, he’s managed to make a complete ass of himself, insulting and deriding everything Aziraphale has to say, and doing his damndest to mangle whatever small bit of faith the angel still retains. Now, as he splays himself over the sofa in the center of the room, tossing aside an abandoned book left, unfortunately, exactly where he wanted to sit, Crowley can sense exactly how uncomfortable he’s making Aziraphale. 

And it’s driving him positively up the wall with rage, feelings festering like a nasty sore. He’s gritting his teeth, trying to bite back a few choice words - ones that he knows would get them both in trouble. It’s only by lieu of Hastur’s sadistic “mercy” that they’re not already in the pits of Hell right now, being tortured in all sorts of less than desirable ways. Still, he wants to gain something from this - an even trade, he’d call it. Crowley prefers referring to it as blackmail.

“Tell me, wank wings. What’s it like up there nowadays? We hear all sorts of stuff downstairs - y’know, not much entertainment in Hell, rumors fly.” Hastur sniggers, crossing his arms behind his head, and looking awfully too pleased with himself, in Crowley’s humble opinion.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” Aziraphale replies, managing to keep up his facade of calm, quiet resilience. Underneath it all, he’s scared, though. Crowley can tell, he can see the way he’s shivering. He can hear the way his pulse races with every cruel-intentioned, snarky phrase Hastur lets slip past his filthy lips.

“Oh, but I think you do, ‘Zira. I think you do.” Hastur snorts, rolling his eyes at the very prospect that Aziraphale might be oblivious to whatever it is he’s implying. Crowley may be in the dark here - he’s had his suspicions for a rough couple of decades, but he’s never been willing to force anything out of Aziraphale that he doesn’t want to give - but something sickly starts churning in his stomach, and his throat’s getting tighter by the second. This doesn’t feel right, not at all, not by the slightest definition of the word. He’s on edge, powerless to watch as the metaphorical train barrels off its metaphorical tracks.

“You see, we talk a lot about you and your… boss, down there. He’s been the topic of our fascination for quite some time now.” says Hastur, slinging a leg over the back of the sofa, just to show that he could get away with it. That he could get away with invading a personal, precious space of Aziraphale’s, and that he knows how much control he’s got over the situation.

“He’s not exactly the most interesting fellow.” Aziraphale murmurs, taking to distracting himself from the conversation by shakily rearranging a few sets of books. Crowley’s heart sinks lower and lower in his chest, cold, sharp adrenaline spiking in his veins. His hands are curled at his side, bundled into tight-knit, barely-contained fists. Every moment that passes feels like another moment closer to his composure finally shattering, the thread-thin lines keeping him together snapping apart. But Hastur’s not done. As a matter of fact, he’s far from it.

“He is, though. Isn’t he? Rather quirky, I think. Spends a lot of time with his favorite employee, and he’s awfully fickle when it comes to you. Always changing his mind - one second, you’ve been a very bad angel, too many frivolous miracles, or something like that. Next, you’re completely off the hook, just don’t do it again, isn’t that right?” Hastur sits up, straightens out his posture as he speaks, suddenly looking far more serious than he has any right to be. His gaze darkens, pupils dilated wide as they could go, his own intrigue getting the better of him.

Aziraphale’s breathing grows heavier, faster, audible only to Crowley, though Hastur still seemed to be getting a kick out of his misery, even if he couldn’t enjoy it to its fullest extent. The angel’s terrified at this point, and Crowley’s left to question what buttons Hastur’s pressing - and how does he know all this? What does he even know?

“All that happens in between those two stages is a little visit to his office, right? Wonder what goes on in there, then. Wonder what you’re doing to convince him you deserve a second chance. After all, he’s so stern with the others. What makes him like you so much?” Hastur skulks up from the sofa, taking advantage of his build and stature to stretch himself out as far as his body allowed. He takes a few steps forwards, scoots closer to Aziraphale, and Crowley’s calculating the distance in his head to see how fast he’ll have to be to knock Hastur’s teeth out in time if he makes a move. 

Aziraphale sucks in a deep breath, and turns to face him, summoning whatever courage and stability he still maintains.

“I haven’t the slightest idea as to what you are inferring, but I find it rather impolite. As you should know, I happen to have a very good relationship with my coworkers. And there’s nothing unjustifiable about that.” he reasons, defending himself as well as he possibly can. Crowley’s heart stops beating - though, it hadn’t ever needed to in the first place. He goes to lurch forwards, plant himself between Aziraphale and Hastur, but he ends up frozen in his tracks as Hastur starts to laugh. A horrendous, ugly laugh. Like a thousand whooping cough infected hyenas screeching all at once, in perfect, unholy unison. He throws his head back, and slaps his own stomach, thoroughly amused.

“God, that is hilarious. A good relationship, indeed. Is that what they’re calling it these days? What he does to you?”

Crowley’s insides wrangle themselves into all sorts of twisted, painfully tight knots. He’s dying to move, dying to scream, to fight, to do anything but just stand there - but he can’t. For some reason or another, he just can’t. He’s stuck where he is, watching, choking back a realization he doesn’t want to know.

Aziraphale bristles, but gives his efforts another shot. 

“Gabriel loves me.”

Hastur smirks. It’s nothing like the playful, gentle smirk Crowley’s always putting on, the one Aziraphale’s oh so familiar with. It’s cold, cunning, malicious. He’s trying to figure out exactly how to twist his blade in a wound never treated, a wound desperately ignored.

“Of course he does. You’re the model employee, always so obedient, always ready to get on your knees… and pray.”

Aziraphale pales, clutching at his stomach like he’s just been hit. He backs away, reaching out for Crowley, though Hastur quickly slides between them, blocking him off from any sort of contact with his husband.

“After all, what boss wouldn’t love such a loyal little fucktoy?” Hastur giggles, his brows cocked and raised, and lips curled in an awful, smug grin. Crowley’s willpower disintegrates, crashing in on itself as he slams Hastur up against the nearest bookshelf, sending novels flying, scattering across the floor.

“Get the fuck out of here. Now.” he snarls, one fist raised in a wordless threat, and the other wound up tight in Hastur’s coat collar, tugging him close enough that Crowley could smell the vile scent of his breath. Hastur throws his arms up, in a surrender, of sorts. Though he’s still smiling, he’s still too pleased with himself. Crowley wants to swat that bloody smile right off his hideously rotten face, but he forces himself to hold back, if only for Aziraphale’s sake.

“It’s alright, I already got what I wanted.” He chuckles, stepping away from Crowley, and finally, finally heading towards the front door. Before leaving, though, he still has to deliver one finishing blow. One more thing, to weigh heavy on Aziraphale’s mind. How could he get what he was owed otherwise? An angel’s agony would surely reward him highly downstairs, he might even receive a condemnation.

He twists his head, just far enough for some unfortunate bones to crack, and snickers.

“Just remember, everybody knows, Aziraphale. Everybody knows.”

And just like that, he’s gone.


End file.
